It's five in the morning and I'm still up. Just desserts for sleeping too late at the start if this day. I'm contemplating staying up, but I think I should go to bed lest my resolve give out at 8am and I waste all of tomorrow in bed. Nothing's wrong, I'm just up because I haven't been awake for eighteen hours and my body thinks it's midnight. And now, a song.

This is The Astronaut Song.
A funny little song I hope you sing along.
This is The Astronaut Song.
Me and the monkey pass the time with Pong.

All I know is that I love you when I'm floating in space,
A funny little song so the monkey punched me in the face.
A funny little song so the monkey punched me in the face.
All I know is that I love you when I'm floating in space,
A funny little song so the monkey punched me in the face.

This is The Astronaut Song.
Man, I wish I'd brought my friends along.
This is The Astronaut Song.
I love the monkey when he plays his gong.

(chorus)

This is The Astronaut Song.
This is the end, now it won't be long.
This is The Astronaut Song.
I think back to places that I've gone.

(chorus)

This is The Astronaut Song.
In a black hole, now I am gone.
This is The Astronaut Song.
I saved the monkey but not his gong.

All I know is that I love you when I'm floating in space,
A funny little song so the monkey punched me in the---
All I know is that I love you when I'm floating in space,
A funny little song so the monkey punched me in the face.
A funny little song so the monkey punched me in the face.
All I know is that I love you so the monkey punched me in the face,
A funny little song when I am floating in space.
A funny little song when I am floating in space.
All I know is that I love you when I'm floating in space...

"The Astronaut Song" Words by M. Wilson. David hates it, so this will never be an RCY song. That's okay, it wouldn't be crowd friendly like "Riot Grrl" or "The Cowboy, the Indian, and the Cyborg;" it's a funny little song about an astronaut dying all alone in deep space, not a topic usually covered in funny little songs. RCY should perform one old MTD song at every show; next up, "The Viking Song"! No way, even better, we should put "The Viking Song" on CODENAME: Koala! That and "Shiver Me Timbers"! Arrrrh!

Real Can of Yams
Good or Suck! (2002)
CODENAME: Koala (2003?)
Nothing Can Kill the Grimace (?)
Real Can of Yams IV: Deadly Alliance (?) tentative title
Nothing Can Kill the Gramace (?) tentative title

I made the font smaller. Why? For the same reason professors used to tell me to reprint papers in a larger font and why I never used up even half of a bluebook: I like very small writing/typing. Not like Seven, but pretty small.

Why am I blogging on a Friday night? The answer is twofold: a) I am a loser and b) I just got off work (I was subbing for the other sup named Mike W.; once again, no good deed...). Neutral Man, the Flying Dutchman, and I had talked about going out after I got back, but now their terrifying friend Grizzly Adams is here. I hate that guy. Shit, I actually wanted to go out.

At work, I realized I've got a little crush on this evening's lifeguard, Elizabeth. (Trivia: her full name is Elizabeth Anne Wilson. My sister's is Lisa Anne Wilson. Lisa is a derivation of Elizabeth. The end result, I have a crush on my sister?) I've known Elizabeth for a couple years now. Here's the thing, I can't have a crush on Elizabeth, I find her mildly annoying. She does not know how to stop speaking, and I've never encountered anyone with a higher opinion of herself. Yet here we are. As I've said before, and will assuredly say again, life is a strange enterprise. (Trivia: Lisa's initials are LAW. She is, of course, a lawyer in Washington, DC.)

Suping the first night of innertube water polo (ITWP to those in the know), I met a kid named Scott, one of the officials. I said to Scott, "You know the show Sports Night?" He nodded. "Has anyone ever told you you look a lot like the character Dan Rydell?" He said, "Yeah, somebody told me that just like the other day." Hand on my heart, he bears the most uncanny resemblence to Josh Charles. I like the kid, I just keep expecting him to start asking people what song in the public domain they would like him to sing to them on their birthday.

Tina asked, "Are you okay?"
Dan smiled and said, "Not even close."

I've discovered to my horror that I really enjoy waking up early. Also, three people said I'm not creepy. Wow, three people actually read this crap. Who knew? The answer: I did. Well, I knew two of them did, and now I've tricked a third into revealing herself. Bwa ha ha ha ha! Let's see, then there are two others, both of whom came forward reluctantly. (I'll tell you, all the anonymity and hiding behind screen names that takes place on the Internet really bugs me. Security is one thing, and no one is more opposed to sexual predators and virtual stalkers than I am, but if you are going to put your opinions out into the world, you should at least have the fortitude to back them up with your name. Only a coward refuses to back up his own words.) So, those five plus, oh, at least seven others that I know of... wow, a dozen readers. Super rad! Me, I've got my four daily reads, plus the BTW Forums ("Which no one is using!" I said accusingly.), and several others that I check sporatically, approximately weekly.

Curses, I'd hoped to get this posted while it was still technically Thursday.

If you get a chance, check out The Starting Line. They aren't great or anything, but for sixteen the front man (boy) is fucking amazing. (What? Nick Neu? The man they call the Boy? Guy Zach Nie! and Boy Nick Neu?)

Here's my question: am I creepy? And yes, I can appreciate the irony inherent in the creepiness of even asking that question. Nevertheless, the original querry stands. Am I creepy? Be honest, I can take it. (And I really would appreciate a response. My email address is rebelblackdot@yahoo.com. Thanks.)

Tonight, Barkey and I attended the innertube water polo managers meeting. We were both wearing our champions T-shirts from last season, the season we finally won. I can't believe it's already been a year. Damn. Anyway, soon the Genesee County All-Stars will begin the quest to defend our title. We're talking a lot of smack, but in so doing taking a philosophical cue from Mohammed Ali: it ain't braggin' if it's true. So if you think you've got game, bring it. We'll be more than happy to show you how the game is played and embarrass you in front of your girlfriend. Nobody talks like the All-Stars, but nobody games like us, either.

The Genesee County All-Stars is an elite team composed of former members of the Grand Blanc High School Boys' Swimming & Diving Team and the Powers Catholic High School Boys' Swimming & Diving Team, former Bobcats and Chargers, fierce rivals, united to dominate intramural innertube water polo at the University of Michigan. All players are current (or in my case, former) U of M students, and only GBHS and PCHS alumni need apply. Do we take this way too seriously? Yes. Are we aware that we take this far too seriously? Yes. Are we going to stop taking this far too seriously? No. Not on your life, skippy. (It should be noted that in high school I hated Jon Barkey. I mean, I couldn't put a face to the name, but I knew there was a really fast Powers kid named Jon Barkey and in a very real, sports rivalish way, I hated him. Now, I quite like the guy. We're not friends, but teammates, absolutely united in our desire to achieve this singular goal.)

Also, Lindsay can soon look forward to phone messages like this, "Hey, it's me. We won our water polo game tonight! It was sweet and we kicked ass! Just wanted to tell you that.... Um, yeah. Have a good one." I'm retarded on the phone, but just as in the case of being retarded on stage with RCY, I think my genuine enthusiasm generates sufficient amounts of good will and understanding for me to get by.

At the Blinkies' wedding, I asked Lindsay if she'd come to visit me once I moved to Boston. She said of course she would. She asked if she could bring a few friends. "I'll bring my friend Tammy. You'd like her. She's perky and has big boobs." I fear I may have disappeared for a few moments through some manner of dimensional tunnel while the conversation continued without me. Yes, please, when you come to visit me in Boston where I will be utterly lonely please bring your friends. That way, it'll really be a collective vacation for the Cal graduate Psych students and I'll just stand in the background trying not to fuck up your good time. (According to Lindsay, I'm the horribly insensitive one in this friendship.) Jesu cristo.

And let us not forget there's nothing I love better than perkiness. I admit that I'm dark; the only thing that bothers me about Lindsay calling me dark is her failure to admit that she is just as dark as I am. For a student of psychology, I really don't think she knows herself all that well. Of course, I'm just going to broach this subject, not give it the in depth analysis it needs.

Now, the extended Blue Tree Whacking gang in...

Dramatis Personae, Part II
the Bald Mountain - you all know the Bald Mountain. He's a great kid.
K. Steeze - Kevin Stermer is our leader. God help us. I've never met anyone else with as much imagination or enthusiasm as Kevin. Sure, he can't talk, but he also doesn't know when to say when, so most things we do end up being too much, that is to say, just enough. Kevin's problem is that he's adorable and girls love him, but he's interested in very few of them. Kevin's an engima wrapped in a riddle buried deep beneath a mystery.
Guy Zach Nie! & Sarah - Zach Nie! is an elemental force of chaos. He isn't evil, he's just up to no good. When he starts to giggle, run, because something unfortunate is about to happen to you. Sarah Kline is his patient girlfriend; she likes video games as much if not more than he does, making her the perfect girlfriend. Zach and Sarah think it's awesome that Ben Folds has a song titled "Zak and Sara."
The Professor - Jonathan Eli Mace is the Smartest Man Alive. He's got a full ride scholarship to college; so, he's always down in Florida, damn it. I hope to one day play Trivial Pursuit against Jon. I have no illusions that I could beat him, I just want to see if I could hang, even for a couple turns. How smart is Jon? During one frustrating game, it was decided that he had to answer a question without it having been asked. He said, "Pork." When the answer was looked up on the card, it read "Pork." Holy. Fucking. Shit.
The All-American Boy - Adam Lubert, who has a twin sister, Anna. The Luberts are good people. If you look up good people in the dictionary, there's a picture of the Luberts. Lube is going to be a doctor. Good people.
the Evil Princess - Leah Sanders isn't from Grand Blanc, she doesn't act in the BTW films, and she's not a member of RCY. But she's got a mischievious streak a mile wide and she loves a good rock show. Leah's cool: she likes ska and Star Wars, but we could never spend too much time together because she really likes to party and I really don't. Still, you've got to love a girl who when she's told has to take her nose stud out for work goes out and gets a bigger one.
Liz Ele - Liz is a mystery to me. Or, more accuately, I just don't know her very well. Liz doesn't like ska or punk rock, but she loves being in RCY and MTD before it. She shows up when we ask and plays the hell out of her drums. A girl drummer. Liz is awesome. And she weighs seven pounds.
Jason Coliadis - I don't think you could really consider Jason a member of BTW anymore, but he must be mentioned as he was instrumental in the early days. Jason has portrayed Smith in all the Smith and Winkler movies and was the guitarist for Murky Transport Disaster. He and David are sworn enemies, but in high school they were best friends.
Leadership - as Jon once said, "We don't really have any leadership. David and Kevin just make the decisions." The Mountain likes the analogy of Steeze as George Lucas, the visionary, while he is Rick McCallum, the producer of Episodes I - III. Rick McCallum has been George Lucas's right hand for over ten years now. His whole job is to make what George Lucas envisions happen. That's a hell of a thing. George Lucas couldn't write dialogue to save his life, but the man has an amazing imagination. Sort of the same thing with Kevin and David. If there is one thing we Wilsons love, it's organization. (I prefer the term order.) Kevin does the imagining, David does the grunt work to pull it all together. They really work quite well together. It's extraordinary. The rest of us are little space monkeys.

Sometime I'll tell you about BTW Films. I fear we may never make another, but even if we don't we still had a good run. I can't wait to see how good I'll be at portraying Captain Dick when I'm actually forty-three years old. Someday, it would be nice to make a Smith and Winkler prequel; so, we could see Dick and Foreman in action. I can see it now, Smith and Winkler: The French Poodle Caper. Man, that'd be great.

Bachelorette No. 3 called this evening and before I could escape she asked, "So, when are we going to hang out?" Gee, I don't know, I've got a pretty busy schedule of putting needles in my eyes. It's a strange business, to dread the ringing of your own phone.

More on nicknames and our cast tomorrow, I promise. If I'm lying, may I spend many hours discussing in exquisite detail exactly why Bachelorette No. 3 is so very, very miserable. Perish the thought. (That's an odd duck of an expression, isn't it?)

I'm taking Lifeguard Girl out to dinner tonight, and then we're going to see Personal Velocity. This will be the first time I've actually gotten to see one of Parker Posey's indie movies in a theater. I'd like to say we're going out on a date, but we're not. I owe her dinner. Why do I owe her dinner? Because I said, fine, I'll buy you dinner. Just like that and I owe her a debt. Life is such a strange enterprise. At the lifeguard thing last night she came up to me and gave me a big hug and said, "How've you been, big guy?" I make an impression on the most random people....

Dramatis Personae, Part II coming tomorrow or the next day. Sorry for the delay.

The hope that there is hope: Lindsay and her boyfriend are spending the next seven days together at a resort in Mexico. By herself, she went to the same resort last spring, though I suspect this time 'round there will be considerably less time spent reading and touring Mayan ruins. I suspect they will rarely leave their bedroom, but my hope is that this will be the longest they've ever spent together, especially alone together, and that she will grow quite sick of him. Or, you know, he'll pleasure her in ways she wouldn't have thought possible.

The hope that there is hope: at Emma's wedding a week ago, we were briefly discussing him. I said, "It would be worse for me if he was a scumbag. I want this kid to be fucking perfect." She replied, "He's not perfect." He's not perfect.

Wow, I would not have thought myself capable of such joy at an Ohio State victory. Huh. The important thing here is that the Big (11) Ten has brought home a second national champioship in five years, and that Michigan's last loss of the season was a close game against the eventual national champions. Ohio State was able to hang with fucking Miami, the best team in the country for the last three seasons, and that makes us and the rest of the conference look good. Sincerely, I hope Ken Dorsey's arm isn't too screwed up, because the kid's got a future in the pros; the same for McGahee's knee.

"Keep your eyes open and you might change your mind": I used to hate all three Florida schools. Miami because they talked shit, Florida State because they were as criminal as Tom Osbourne's Nebraska, and Florida because of Spurrier. Spurrier's gone, but I still hate Florida (who doesn't?); I took great glee in Georgia's mauling of the Seminoles for FSU's fifth (hurray!) loss of the year; yet, having recovered from the NCAA recruiting restrictions of the early '90s, I find nothing at all to dislike about Miami. They are respectful and hardworking, and if they walk with a certain swagger it's only because they are in fact that good. So, my rooting for OSU was not hatred for Miami, but desire for the advancement of the Big (11) Ten.

Congratulations to my uncle, Dr. Bob Little; high school bud Rich Fouts; and Pat "Woody" Oakes, the man to see if you want to hold a kick-ass pig roast in Grand Blanc.

(I'm so afraid of Mauirce Clarett right now. The stripping on the ball after the interception in the end zone? That's one of the smartest plays I've seen in the whole of my life.)

It should be noted that I use nicknames in this blog not to protect anybody's identity, but because I think they are more fun than normal names. The Watergirl, from whom I pinched the idea, uses nicknames to protect the innocent and guilty, like on Dragnet. I have no such concern for my fellow man. If you know me, there's a danger that I'll blog about you. Of course, I generally don't blog anything terribly private about anyone besides Lindsay, and then only because she knows I have a blog, knows I often talk about her on said blog, and has said she will respect my desire for her to not read the blog. Still, the truly private stuff only goes into my Journal, which only I read. So, if you know me and you don't want to be mentioned here, let me know, because a "clever" nickname will not protect you identity.

After the RCY show, Skeeter, Saturday Night, and The Watergirl all expressed some confusion over the characters in my little drama. So, in an idea again lifted from Rant & Roar, here, in no particular order, are our players:
Dramatis Personae
Me, Myself, I - my name is Michael Patrick Wilson. My parents call me Michael, but the name I use in my own head is Mike. I am The Last Angry Man. If you like me, you need help. Seriously. As I type this, I'm listening to Ben Folds's Rockin' the Suburbs, meaning by the end I'll be on about my fifth consecutive listening of "The Luckiest," one of the three most romantic songs I've ever heard. ("The Luckiest," "New York City" by They Might Be Giants from Factory Showroom, and "Josie" by Blink-182 from Dude Ranch. I've yet to decide upon an order.) I'm cynical, but quite the sentimentalist once you get to know me.
the Bald Mountain - my little brother, David. He's been the most important thing in the world to me since he was born (I was two and three months).
Lindsay - Lindsay Shaw, the love of my life. To my great sorrow, I am only her best friend. She is amazing.
Skeeter - my self-described soulmate, Julie (last name withheld by request). Julie's been in my triumvirate of best friends since high school, and I honestly don't know what I'd do without her.
Dylweed & Kristy - another triumvier, Dylan Haney was named after either Bob Dylan or Dylan Thomas, depending on his mood when you ask; Kristy is his charming wife. He's watched me grow and change since middle school and for whatever reason Dylan understands how I see the world, even when it's not how he sees it. We just think on the same wavelength.
Saturday Night Latham - SNL, for Scott Nielson Latham. Also called Scottie J. or Scottie Too Hottie. Scott's just a good man, a truly decent person; he's kind in a way I just can't fathom. Sadly, he has the world's worst haircut.
Boof Daddy - Steve Booth, Scott's twin brother, though they aren't related. Steve can climb vertical poles and lift seven times his own body weight.
Steve Reed - um, his name is Steve Reed. We were going to room together freshman year at Michigan, but then Notre Dame came through with some scholarship money and he was able to fulfill his dream of attedning that dreadful institution. Steve's an ace with numbers and an incredibly intense guy.
Justinandemily - once, my friend Justin Dugas and his girlfriend, Emily Mathews (yes, with only one T). Justinandemily (sometimes Emilyandjustin) are now one conglomorated lifeform, a mock married. Alone among mock marrieds, I don't think they plan to get married or engaged any time soon.
Neutral Man - my buddy and housemate Brad "Brado" Dupay. Brad dresses like he's thrity-five, but he's still a kid. I wish once in a while he'd stand up for what he believes. I doubt we'll stay in touch once we no longer live together. I hate Brad's column in The Newsletter. His evil ex-girlfriend = Miss Missy.
the Flying Dutchman - my housemate and new buddy Mike "Fatty" Lindemulder. He and Brad are high school friends. I like Mike because he believes what he believes, even when I disagree. Again, I think we'll lose touch, but that's okay.
The Plate - I like Jim Platte, in that I like him whenever we hang out, but he once betrayed me without blinking an eye. Truly, a friend of convenience. I'll be glad to be rid of him.
Alber & SSG - Mike Alber and his girlfriend Julie Smith. Alber and I could have been lifelong friends, but he lacks the courage to honor his moral convictions. Also, he's surrendered his soul to SSG, a perfect example of women at their worst. I met Lindsay through SSG, which sickens me almost as much as their continuing friendship. SSG stands for "slutty, slutty girlfriend," which is what one of her high school friends called her once. A kinder meaning is "soul-sucking girlfriend," which no one can deny.
The Watergirl - I only first met Katie (last ane withheld by request) on Monday, even though we attended Michigan during the same four years and shared many common acquaintances and friends. (Technically, we did meet at least once, but neither of us seems to remember it.) I like Katie because her blog annoys me as much as it amuses me, yet I cannot help but keep reading it. She has a stunning singing voice and is a great songwriter, but it appears she's too chicken to perform her stuff live; it is the greater world's loss.

Next time, the extended Blue Tree Whacking gang, et alii; the importance of Real Can of Yams, Skip Carmichael, and Smith and Winkler; and the origin of the Rebel Black Dot Society.

Sweet! I thought that the previous post had been completely lost due to the evil machinations of Netscape (on this computer, Explorer works even worse), but now I find that it was not. Hurrah! As I speak, BTW Day is morphing. I'm hoping to join in; I don't feel sick, but I'm afraid to eat anything more substantial than toast since I still don't know what caused me to blow chunks yesterday. (Lovely post, aren't you glad you read this blog?)

After the show on Monday, while the kids got blitzed at Nick Neu's house, Skeeter, Saturday Night Latham, The Watergirl, and I hit Shap's for some late night dining and conversation. Given that there is no equivalent of Conor's in GB/Flint, I can't think of anything I'd rather do than hang out in a greasy spoon and talk. But then again, I'm lame, having never had much affection for parties. Paradoxically, I really liked playing host ot the 1213 parties we had the first year I lived there. Hm, strange. I'm just babbling, I don't really have anything interesting to say.

New Year's Eve and New Year's Day...
The Good
Michigan 38, Florida 30 in the Outback Bowl. So far, Michigan, Purdue, Minnesota, and Wisconsin have won their bowl games; Penn State is the Big Ten's only loss. Iowa plays tomorrow, against Southern Cal, and Ohio State takes on Miami of Florida in Friday's national champioship game. Remember, Big Ten loyalty extends to all but Michigan State; so, though it slightly pains me to say it, go Bucks! (And please, let's not have a riot this time. Ha ha.)

Today, I finished In Pharaoh's Army and I'm rapidly devouring Back in the World, both by Tobias Wolff. When I return to Ann Arbor, I may have to reread The Night in Question, his latest collection of short stories.

Although more will be said about this in our next catagory, I'm really grateful for the old friends I've been able to see this past week. Lying in bed earlier, I was trying to get in a funk about Lindsay's boyfriend, but I just couldn't; all I could think of was how she felt in my arms as we said goodbye and all seemed right with the world.

The Bad
Lindsay and Skeeter have returned to Berkeley and New York, respectively. Saturday Night Latham, Boof Daddy, Steve Reed, Mr. & Mrs. Blinky, all gone as well, scattered once again to the four winds. It will never make sense to me why we abandon our friends to pick up stakes and move across the country. (Nevertheless, within months I will be a resident of Boston, Massachusetts. Go figure.) Anyway, they're all gone, and it will be too long before I see any of them again.

For no discernable reason, today I puked my guts out. After the Outback Bowl, I started to feel an odd sensation from my stomach, and by the end of the Penn State-Auburn game (the Capital One Bowl, formerly the Citrus Bowl), I had to rush upstair and ralph. Since then, I've felt vaguely ill and I am seriously concerned that I may have to bail on BTW Day tomorrow. Damn it, no, not BTW Day... son of a bitch, of all the rotten stinking timing.

The Ugly
Saturday, December 28 and Monday, December 30 were two of the best days of my life. Honestly, though I feel like shit right now, I'm actually rather hopeful for the future. In one of Wolff's stories, "Sister," I encountered this passage:

A few minutes ago she had nearly been killed and now there was nobody to talk to about it, to see how afraid she was and tell her not to worry, that it was over now. That everything was going to be all right. And Marty understood that there was never going to be anyone to tell her these things. She had no idea why this should be so; it was just something she knew.

I have things I want to say about hope and desperation, but I've tried several drafts and right now I just don't have it in me to say them properly. Nevertheless, I can say with great certainty that the reign the dark bastard enjoyed in November shan't return soon; though she's broken my heart countless times before, at present I am once again a devoted believer in the fairest of maidens, Hope. Or at the very least, the hope that there is hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(chorus)

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

(chorus)

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

(chorus)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And by the way, you're all skankoids.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

c) Lindsay loves Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Wedding Mike, signing off.

I'm finalizing plans for new tattoos, but I don't want any where they wouldn't be seen, which conflicts with my need for an actual adult job. Curses! I guess I've got to get off my butt and finish In Search of the Perfect Lesbian, so I can become a novelist, and pitch some ideas to Oni Press, so I can become a comic book writer (I'd pitch directly to DC, because I do want to write superhero comics, too, not just character driven indies, but they don't accept unsolicited admissions).

On Friendship...
In Lindsay's mind, I've never been in direct competition with Jake. I was never in competition, because to her I was never even in the game; which, to be honest, I've always felt was unfair to me, that I was never even considered as potential boyfriend material. Anyway, despite the fact that I'm not in direct competition with this kid (some econ major toolbox at Sacramento State... Sac State? So much for Lindsay's professed snobbishness about education), at this moment in time being her friend feels a lot like a consolation prize, and there is nothing in the world I hate more than pity.

On Life "After" Lindsay...
I never had a shot with Bachelorette No. 3 because she's racist. Her parents immigrated from Taiwan and she only likes Chinese guys. And she won't date a Chinese guy if he doesn't speak Mandarin at least somewhat fluently. I found out Bachelorette No. 2 is a Trekkie, a major plus, but I only found out because we were discussing how she really wants to ask this other guy to go see Nemesis with her as their first date. And I don't even like Bachelorete No. 1; I'm only "attracted" to her because she seems to be attracted to me. She's creative, but I hate her ideas. Last night, the Mountain asked me if I'd kissed EPM. Now, admittedly, at a party in September I did have my hand on her ass for over an hour (in two or three little stretches), and later when I sat down on a couch she stratled me, but it was a weird night all around and there was nothing remotely going on. I know how much it would hurt him if I ever kissed her and he knows I never would; so, it was really weird for me that he asked that. Of course, given how odd I've been behaving lately, his concern seems much more reasonable.

One day, I'll regain my perspective, but not today. Today, I need to vent: I would be a good boyfriend. One day, I would have made a devoted husband and an extraordinary father. In light of that, it's so disheartening that none of those things will ever come to pass, and that it'll be up to my sister and brother to make my mom into the perfect grandmother she'd be.

On Friendship...
I say what I'm about to say not out of a lack of self-confidence or a surplus of self-pity, but out of honest confusion: I don't understand why I have any friends. I'm moody, I'm mean, I'm inconsistent, I've got a terrible temper, I'm arrogant, and I'm judgmental. On the plus side, I'm smart, I'm funny, I'm loyal, I'm helpful, I'm wise, and I've got all the right opinions. (That last one's a joke... well, half a joke/half half-serious.) But, it seems like an awful lot to put up with. And yet, I've got friends. I've got a lot of friends. Speaking of true friends, I actually think I have more than most people. I don't get it, but there are a number of people out there who absolutely adore me. Sickos to be sure, but they genuinely like me. I used to doubt this, but then I realized that I was too much to put up with for these people to be pretending; so, they really love me. Who knew. The only thing I'm missing is a girlfriend. By way of contrast, then there's Lindsay. She's had a string of boyfriends who haven't deserved her, but she has very few friends. All her old boyfriends are "useless fuckers," and she already doubts she'll stay in touch with her Berkeley classmates once they all move on. Her undergrad years at UNC were full of lovers and acquaintances, but no real friends. Obviously, I'm biased, but I just can't figure this out: how a person (either or both of us) can be so successful in one area, and such an abject failure in the other.

I write the dark bastard as if he's English only because he seems much more cruel that way, there being no more vicious and malicious people on the face of the Earth than the sons and daughters of merry old England.

Sorry, Dylweed, God won't be up for reelection until A.D. 3000. You'll still be a valuable part of the Star Chamber Council during The Revolution and later under The Empire, though.

As I was logging in at the Blogger page, one of the 10 Most recently Updated Blogs was the Watergirl's. Even more crazy is the fact that two minute's earlier, I'd been at her page reading the weekend's posts. With so many folks blogging, what are the chances that I'd be logging in during the precious few seconds when someone I "know" has just published? Neat!

I've been so terribly unfair to her. She never asked for me to fall in love with her, she never asked for our friendship to be an emotional minefield. She's called me her best friend, and yet she felt compelled to keep her boyfriend hidden from me for months. What a monster I've been.

I hate everything that's happening right now, yet I cannot help but be excited to see her next week.

I'm actually feeling pretty good today, but I'm still going to give the dark bastard his due. The dark bastard, for those of you who may not know, is the name I've given to all my insecurities, self-loathing, and doubt. He's an integral part of me, but I like to refer to him as if he is a separate person. Because the dark bastard is consistent; when I'm happy he tries to bring me down, and when I'm sad he indulges me. This is the only part of the Lost Post that I was happy to see go, but the dark bastard is just going to keep pestering me until I publish it.

And now a word from the dark bastard...
I'm not talking about hope, possibility, or any other unquantifiable measurement here, I'm talking about cold, hard logic. Hope is the lies we tell ourselves when we don't like the truth; logic is uncaring, but at least it's honest. Logically, Wilson is going to die alone. In his life, three girls have liked him. One he liked only as a friend, another he didn't like at all, and though he liked the third and she liked him, they never liked one another silumtaneously. He has liked many girls, with varying degrees of affection. The fat fuck's loved two of them: Skeeter and Linz. Though both considered him a dear friend, neither had the slightest romantic interest in 'im. So, it logically follows that any girl Wilson loves will not love him. Here, two options persent themselves: a) in order to find romance, he must lower his standards and fake affection for a girl he doesn't love, or b) he lives and dies alone. And the bloke's too proud to lower his standards, so, logically, he will die alone. The best part is, though, that he knows this, and yet the wanker will continue to pursue Linz and then the next girl after her and the next girl after her and I'll laugh my fucking head off the whole time. Why? Because of hope. Cruel, taunting hope.

I've been having a very frank dialogue with Lindsay this week. "The thing is, I don't love you the way you want, and so I wouldn't ever be able to make you happy that way." How do I give her up? She's so certain it wouldn't work, but I'm so certain it would.

All the folks I work with think I'm weird. Thank God at least one thing is still right with the world.

I've come to a conclusion: life is unfair, but that doesn't mean you have to accept that. Life will be unfair whether or not you accept its inherent unfairness; so, why take it lying down? Life's unfair, so fuck life. Rant and rail against each little unfairness if you like; it'll be just as unfair if you stay quiet, but at least this way you'll have gotten a good yell out of the deal. Life will always be unfair, but that doesn't mean you have to just grab your socks and take it.

I have just lost the greatest post in the history of the Secret Base. It was personal and it was poetic, I worked on it for over an hour. I tried to post it, but Internet Explorer kept telling me that there was no post, in defiance of the pages of text ahead of me. So, I tried the Post & Publish button, and most of it simply disappeared. Maybe the reading of it isn't so important as the writing. Maybe it is enough that I got some things off my chest. Maybe Ev and the other assholes who invented this fucking blogspot sytem will burn in a special section of Hell.

I had been working on that post all weekend, gathering my thoughts, refining the phrasing in my head, so that for one day at least my blog would have something of significance to say. Clearly, this was a mistake. I shall never again be so foolhardy as to prepare anything for my blog. Back to whatever stikes my fancy in the moment, a sure route to banality and boredom. So, my beloved readers, I am sorry, I tried to give you more, but I was thwarted. I would say that it was meant to be, but fate is for cowards and weaklings.

The election of Rep. Nancy Pelosi as minority leader of the House is the first sign of life from the Democrats in ten years. In 1992, they realized that candidates like Michael Dukakis against centrist Republicans like George Bush; so, positioning themselves in the center via Bill Clinton, a smooth-talking young governor from the right-wing of the party, they were able to recapture the White House after twelve years of Reagan-Bush. In the intervening decade, the Grand Old Party has taken advantage of the generally rightward shift in attitudes to paint itself as the party of the center, and intimidating the Democrats into being Faux Republicans. With unreconstructed liberal Nancy Pelosi now in the party's leadeship, the Democrats are now in a strong position to make a stand on the political left. This is a gamble, especially given Presiden George W. Bush's popularity. However, by playing it safe, by not standing up for truly different ideas, they have already allowed the Republicans to seize complete control of Capitol Hill as well as the White House. I would have thought that a beating like that of two weeks ago would have had the Democrats cowering in fear; it is an uncharacteristic show of backbone for them to take a stand like this. Though I vote Republican, there is a part of me that truly relishes the battle to come. Nancy Peolis is a risk, and it may end very badly for them, but at least it shows that they are trying to get off the mat, and it's always nice to see a man realize he's not yet done.

As the Chinese Communist Party goes through the motions of installing a new group of "leaders," we should all take a moment to reflect on how fortunate we are that in the power struggle of the early '90s, between Tiananmen in '89 and Deng Xiaoping's death in '97, the moderate forces of Jiang Zemin were able to triumph over the hardliners of Li Peng. In a struggle we never saw, and about which most Westerners and Chinese alike will never know, the reason of Deng trumped the radicalism of Mao, and the one-fifth of the human race that is the Chinese were allowed to continue their Long March toward the hope of a brighter tomorrow.

On Friday,

Nancy Pelosi! Li Peng! A beautiful girl in the rain! Saturday's wedding! Old friends! New uncertainties! Seeing and not being seen by all the right people! All this and a special message from the dark bastard, coming up next! You're watching Sports Night on CSC, so stick around.

Thanks to the good people at Amazon.com, I received my preordered copy of Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones in yesterday's mail. Woo hoo! It was the best thing that could have happened to me. Tonight, power pop with the authority himself, Kiel Phelgey, and tomorrow Super Wilson Bros. action after I hang out with Bachelorette No.3. Except for the huge hole in my chest where my heart used to be, things are looking up.

Hang in there, Skeeter. Just like MTM, you're going to make it after all.

"There's a hole in my heart as deep as a well
For that poor little boy trapped half way to Hell."

Thank heavens for The Simpsons.

David and I are going to see Fountains of Wayne in Detroit on Wednesday, and then on Thursday he wants to go to Conor's. Not that he's going to drink anything, but it's good he wants to get used to it so we can go back on trivia night with Zach Nie! and the gang. I love Conor O'Neill's, but it's always a little weird for me to be there with somebody besides Linz, since we have a table there. I hope we'll get to share it over Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I talked to Bachelorette No.3 last night and she really is just as weird as she appears to be. I'm tired of being sad all the time, but I don't know how to fix it. Even before I found out Linz is Jake's girlfriend, things had started to fall apart. I haven't been to trivia night with Zach Nie! in forever, The Newsletter is completely off-schedule, and I'm not even consistently playing with the Flounders. I'm sick of it, which means it's time to get angry. Anger can't help me with Linz, but by Jove, it can fix the rest! Tomorrow, I'm going to kick the crap out of some middle-aged men, I'm going to finish The Newsletter with or without The Plate and Neutral Man, and I'm going to finally buy a damn Fountains of Wayne CD. So what if Justinandemily didn't return my call this past weekend, it's time to let my friends know that they're important to me and I want to see them; or, like Alber & SSG, just cut them out of my life as completely as possible. I going to give Skeeter a call and just shoot the shit. I'm going to have a damned good time on Saturday at the wedding and I'm going to have fun hanging out with Bachelorette No.3 on Thursday. Why now? Because it is never too late. Never. "He was one hundred and seventy days dying and not yet dead."

Hi, I'm Mike Wilson. My full name is Michael Patrick Wilson. I'm The Last Angry Man.

Listen to Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.: Armistice Day is sacred.

One week tonight since the fire in my eyes dimmed. One week since the world lost so much of its color. (Sorry for the melodrama.)

I'm really starting to worry about how much I want to kiss someone. Currently, I have three potentials, Bachelorettes Nos. 1, 2, and 3. Bachelorette No. 1 seems the most interested, but I am not; there's just something all wrong about her. Bachelorette No. 2 calls me Michael, which slays me, but we move in very different social circles. Things could go either way with Bachelorette No. 3; we could date or just be good friends. I don't trust myself, because I'm afraid that what I really want is for us to be friends but that I'm not thinking clearly at the moment so I'll try to make us more than friends. And underlying it all is the question of how I could possibly date anyone feeling as I do about Lindsay. (All of this presupposes that any of the three Bachelorettes would be receptive to my advances, a feat of great hubris on my part.) I will marry Lindsay or die in the attempt. But that could take years; what am I to do in the meantime? Should I wait for her with monkish devotion? Could I casually date, always knowing that it is not the girl I'm with I truly want? Would that be horridly unfair to any girl I'm seeing? Or, is it acceptable to enter and continue a relationship with no intention of it ever being anything but impermanent? I will not have any part in being with someone merely as a distraction. But, if I genuinely like someone, is it permissible to act on those feeling, even though my unrequitted feelings for Lindsay are so much stronger? Would it be kosher to just set Lindsay aside and carry on acting on my other impulses? These are questions I have been gently grappling with all these long months while Lindsay hid him from me. Now brought into sharp focus by her status as Jake's girlfriend.

A little while back, I said something very insensitive about Emma and Bran. For this, I have apologized and I have made a sincere effort to be more considerate. However, Emma's nickname, Ham 'n' Eggs, is based on her soon-to-be-maiden name, Emma Knag. Soon, she will be Emma Blinkenberg. So, I want to start calling her Mrs. Blinky; he's already, technically, Mr. Blinky. My question is: is this offensive to either of them?

I'm actually feeling a lot better, because I've been dividing my time between too-quickly tearing through the Sports Night box set and thinking about all the sex Lindsay and Jake are having. (I have no evidence that they are having sex, but they're dating seriously enough for Linz to risk telling me; so, instead of being anxious about it, I've just accepted that fact that in a probability so high it is essentially a certainty, they are.) And I've been trying to speak more rapidly, in quick Sorkin-esque sentences, dashing between topics at breakneck speed. My thinking goes like this: I have almost convinced myself that jealousy is a waste of time. There are some kinks in the system, but that's to be expected. So, anyway, Lindsay feels the same way about me as she did before Jake came along. She feels about the same way about me as she did once he'd come along, but before she felt their relationship serious enough to merit telling me. She loves me as one of her best friends in all the world, but she does not now and never has felt the same way about me as I feel about her. Just because she likes Jake in a way she's never liked me doesn't mean she has in any way stopped liking me. It's killing me that she feels about him as she's never felt about me (it makes me feel very small), but not as much as it should because I'm learning that jealousy is a waste of time.

So, I'm trying to build up an immunity to the thought of them having sex, and they only way to do that is to expose myself to it. It's not easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is. I should be fine seeing her over Thanksgiving, but it's going to ruin me seeing her dressed up for Emma and Bran's wedding after Christmas.

People are a funny lot. The case in point: cheer up notes. Who writes them. Who doesn't. Who sends a non-cheer up note. It's fascinating.

"Jealousy is a waste of time." From Catwoman: Selina's Big Score, written and drawn by Darwyn Cooke. And my thanks to Skeeter, who taught me the real meaning of Christmas... I mean, that jealousy and love are antithetical ideas.

Last night, the Bald Mountararat and I were able to watch Enterprise together for the first time this season. (A Three Musketeers to whomever can tell me from what pop culture item the nickname variation Bald Mountararat is derived.) Enterprise rules, but I'm still terribly apprehensive about the forthcoming Star Trek: Nemesis.

I need a girl, I need a drink, I need something to take my mind off Linz. Except all I see in any girl is that she can't possibly measure up to her, and I've never been able to get drunk. One of these days, the Mountain and I need to go to Conor's anyway, because now that he's twenty-one we can, damn it. My Sports Night DVDs arrived yesterday; now I own the entire series, not just the half-the-show, out-of-order episodes I'd taped off (shudder shudder) Comedy Central. I'm Dan Rydell and Linz is Rebecca Wells; I just don't think it is within me to respond to this situation by being "wonderful" as Danny did. Curse you, Aaron Sorkin!

I still feel like I've been impaled, but sadly that is a lot better than yesterday.

Though I both vote Republican and believe absolutely in my own righteousness, I'm still amazed every time we win any election. Sweet fancy Moses (stolen from Get Fuzzy), what happened? I haven't felt like this since that wonderful day in 1994 when the "Republican Revolution" left Todd Plants stupified and outraged. (In Mr. Riek's Honors English 10, Nicky the Greek and I were teasing him by called him a liberal, at which point he grabbed a dictionary and asked, "What's wrong with being a liberal?" Good times, good times.) In '96, Bob Dole, a good man who refers to himself only in the third person for reasons known only to him, lost to Slick Willy; in '98, we lost ground due to our own stupidity but held on to both houses; in 2000, we got the presidency, but only through the most embarrassing moment our democracy has suffered in quite some time, and then shortly lost the Senate to that weasel Daschle. (Seriously, Daschle? I can only assume he's as dissatisfying to most Democrats as Trent Lott is to all moderate Republicans.) But, I think a lot of the credit for this victory must be ascribed to Democratic ineptitude. Even though most of the illegal activity occured during the Clinton Administration, they should have been able to hang us with the corporate accountability scandal; yet, they did not. Bless them for being afraid to actually be Democrats; because if they're not Democrats they are Faux Republicans, and if they are Faux Republicans, you might as well give the President the real Republicans he asked for. And W, wow. He barnstrormed America and America liked it. I would have thought that the popularity he derived from 9/11 would have faded by now. The thing is, it might have; it might be that the American people genuinely like George W. Bush. I'm told that if you even meet the man, you like him. He's just likable. Clinton was a master persuader, that if you even met him within minutes he'd have you thinking his way; perhaps Bush has a similar power, only he doesn't win you over, he just wins your trust. Today, I feel much better about the 2004 presidential campaign than I ever have before.

On a similar note... take that, Walter Mondale! I miss Paul Wellstone; I disagreed with him about everything, but at least he was the guilty conscience of the Democratic Party.

The three worst words in the English language: Lindsay and Jake.

Once on a Marching Band trip, I decided to sit by myself on the way home to see if anyone would miss me. I stared out the window and quietly sang "The Minstrel Boy" over and over again. When we got back to school, Ham 'n' Eggs asked me if I was okay, and said Skeeter told her I looked as if I'd been impaled. I remember that story because right now I do feel as if I've been impaled. I looked into my eyes last night just before I went to bed and again this morning; I can't put my finger on what exactly it is, but something that should be there isn't.

She emailed me last night. The time stamp puts it at about the time I fell asleep. "are you ok?" It's nice to know the world still has it's sick fucking sense of humor.

"Jealousy is a waste of time." His name is Jake. It's been going on since July, shortly after I left, and she didn't tell me. She said because I'm important to her. The dark bastard says it's kind of her to lie.

Scott Latham has the single worst haircut in the history of Mankind. It was great seing him this weekend, but every time I looked at him I had to stifle a laugh. He's grown his hair out and bleached it, leaving a stringing, dried out, sickly-looking mass on top of his head. He had with him a hat that when worn made him look like the fuckface singer from Puddle of Mudd. Great Caesar's ghost, it was the most pathetic I've even seen a human being look in the whole of my life. I felt really sorry for him.

El Presidente has asked permission to create a link between his blog and The Secret Base. That's fine, unless I start getting a lot of asshole vegans in here.

DO NOT see the IMAX version of Attack of the Clones! The movie was cut from nearly two and a half hours in length to two hours. It was butchered. Honestly, I was really hurt by how disappointing it was.

(I apologize for the inelegence of today's posts. Something's off, but I'm not certain what.)

I had lunch with Mr. Chevy Celebrity today. As usual when I'm getting to know someone, I made him do most of the talking. I'm not at all angry or frustrated with myself, just bemused. I love the sound of my own voice so much, why do I do that? I highly recommend Kabob Palace if you're looking for someplace to eat.

Hyperlinks: I do not have a problem with anyone linking to this page. Whomever wishes to is welcome to read this blog. Just be aware that this is my blog, not yours. I am an abrasive person; so, if you don't like what you read, either stop reading or strike back. Don't ask me to censor myself because you're insecure. Everybody saw Spider-Man, right? "With great power comes great responsibility." By no means do I have great power, but with any power comes a proportional level of responsibility. Don't use the power of the hyperlink if you can't use it responsibily. Other than that, link 'til the cows come home for all I care.

It's All Saints Day, by the way. A holy day of obligation.